Perspiration and Projectiles
by Michelle
Summary: A mission goes south, Natasha gets hurt, and Clint really hopes the walls are thicker than they seem.


_First we get that lovely, erm, dvd quality image of Hawkeye and Black Widow fighting in Abidjan, and then Jo and I had a massive capslock conversation, all of which resulted in this. For her, because I said so._

_Goes with the cottoncandy-bingo prompt "Whisper", so, uh, no real angst or sadness here, kids. Just smut._

* * *

He and Natasha were in Abidjan trying to root out a HYDRA cell when the shit hit the fan. More to the point, they were outmanned in Abidjan when the shit hit the fan. It wasn't so much that the intel was bad (though it was), so much as it was fucking impossible to get any decent backup in the damn place.

Coulson, of course, had assured them, straight faced as ever, that they would make it in and out of the storage facility, no trouble at all. He'd arranged a car and a hotel for them, and everything seemed to be going swimmingly. They'd spent two days cruising all the hot spots, playacting French tourists and spending too much money on worthless trinkets that would only end up in the hotel garbage can later.

They weren't really surprised when Coulson phoned with a location and a time, but apparently boss man had played a tip from the wrong person because the very second that they set foot in the warehouse, they knew they were well and truly fucked.

Three explosions and a minor shrapnel wound later, the sun was up again, the five member backup team they'd radioed for was dead, and the two of them were dipping into their last reserves of ammunition. She was trying to conserve bullets and he was collecting his arrows when he could, but eventually (and that eventually was going to be so much sooner rather than later), they were going to be out of rounds.

And then they were going to be dead, too.

But some kind of miracle happened (a miracle named Phil), and a real SHIELD team popped up seemingly out of nowhere (Natasha would gleefully list all the clues he'd missed later, he was certain), and then they stopped planning their last words because the HYDRA agents were so much meat and the two of them were alive and boy, was Coulson going to be pissed that they blew up half a city block in the process.

By the time they got back to their shithole of a hotel, it was almost dark again, and they hadn't slept in two days. Par for the course, really, but that didn't mean they had to like it.

"Jesus, Coulson, can't it wait until morning?" Clint asked, a slight whine in his voice, not even caring that the backup team was in the room to hear him. Because, well, the adrenaline coursing through his system wasn't going to last forever, and he wanted his face firmly planted into a pillow before it ran out.

Coulson leveled a stern gaze in his direction, then flicked his eyes over the tears in Clint's uniform, the scabbed over blood on his arms. He sized up Natasha next, and in one slow blink his countenance changed, and the seriousness dropped out of his expression. He sighed. Clint swore he even saw a little eye roll in there, but he wasn't about to call the man on it.

"Okay, agents. Debrief at 0900 tomorrow," Coulson said, then turned a pointed stare at Clint. "Don't be late." He got the distinct impression that Coulson was trying to chastise him for something, but, well, he didn't give a shit.

"Thank you, sir," Natasha said, pushing Clint past the other agents and out the door before he could say something that changed Coulson's mind. Their walk was short; the next room over was Clint's if you were inclined to believe the expense reports.

He held the door for her because he could pretend to be a gentleman when he wanted to and when she brushed against him with a seductive glint flashing in her eye, he felt himself stiffen, just a little. She noticed, of course, she always noticed, probably even expected it by now. The adrenaline of trying to stay alive had turned into the headiness of actually being alive, and they were both too pumped full of the hormone to seriously consider not screwing the shit out of each other right now.

All the same, she sagged a little and started limping the moment the door clicked shut behind them.

"Nat?" he asked, even as she collapsed on the bed, pulling off her boots. "You okay?"

She nodded and rubbed a firm hand up and down her calf muscle. "Yeah, fine. Just a little stiff."

She unzipped her suit to the waist, pulled the leather down, and he noticed the blood on her arm then, a nasty looking gash with bits of silver metal in it from where she's been hit.

"That doesn't look fine to me," he said.

She grunted in response, looking askance at him as she checked her wound. "Got me deeper than I thought." She used her opposite hand to get a better look. "Shit. Passed right through the meat. Patch me up?"

He dropped his quiver to the floor by the bed, then grabbed the medkit out of his pack. "You know, Agent Jones back there is a licensed field medic. It's why he's here," he told her, even as he sat down next to her to peer at the wound on her arm.

Natasha just stared at him for a long moment. She didn't have to say it, but she did anyway. "I don't trust Jones."

He took care in cleaning out her wound, tweezing out the bits of metal that still remained in the gash and rinsing the area with disinfectant. "You really did a number on yourself," he said.

She hissed as the fluid sluiced over her arm. "Maybe if my partner was more careful with his explosive tips . . ." she said, leaving the sentence hanging.

He knew she was mostly talking about arrows even if it didn't sound that way to his dick. He snorted, ignoring the double entendre. "Yeah, well, maybe if my partner didn't get herself backed into a corner, I wouldn't need to resort to it."

It wasn't really his fault that she'd ended up cornered alone, and she knew that, but they always talked like this in the strange in-between times after the battle and before the sex. They needed some way to shift the mood from killing to fucking, which for them meant bickering. He supposed it was as close to being an old married couple as the two of them would ever get.

It was kind of nice.

He reached for a needle, threading it without expression.

"Are you sure?" she asked, more annoyed at the situation than afraid.

He raised an eyebrow at her, a move he'd picked up from her long ago. He was still surprised when it worked on her and she actually quieted. He handed her his flask before he got to work, and she drank the contents while he disinfected the needle. And then he was stitching her arm closed, her vise grip on the sheets his only indication that she actually felt anything as he sewed.

"Fuck," she said when it was over and he was covering the area with gauze. He secured the last piece of tape, then leaned down over her, kissing her shoulder.

"Dumbass," she said, as she rolled her eyes and scoffed, but there was a smile on her face and it was a colloquialism he'd taught her, so he didn't mind, just grinned.

She pounced then, rolling up onto her knees to straddle him.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked, but his hands were already skimming up her sides.

She hunkered over him, leaning so close that he could feel her breath on his face. "I'm too keyed up for that, Barton," she whispered.

"Even after the impromptu surgery?"

She bit her lip, nodded. "Especially after that. I'd like to feel good right now."

He grabbed her hips and pulled her firmly down against his growing erection. "Anything I can do to help?"

She wiggled her hips, ground herself against him, the leather of her cat suit squeaking as she shifted. "I can think of a few things."

He grinned wickedly at her then, flipped her onto her back and climbed between her legs. He traced his hands up her legs, pressed firmly on the leather at the apex of her thighs, and she sighed, half a moan as he rubbed against her.

"Is that what you wanted?" he asked, and she nodded at first, thought better of it, and shook her head.

"More," she commanded, and her voice wasn't the calm, self-assured purr it usually was, but soaked strongly with the adrenaline and lust, alcohol and fatigue.

"More what?" he asked her because he couldn't resist when she was like this, panting beneath him with barely a touch.

"More you," she said, louder, more forceful than before. He slid his hand up over her mound to grasp the zipper of her suit, and he pulled it down slowly, taking his time, teasing her with the speed. Bracing his arms on either side of her hips, he dropped down to his elbows and chased the opening zipper with his lips, pressing kisses to her navel and the soft flesh below.

She arched her back, lifting her hips off the mattress so he could peel the skin tight leather away from her body, her uniform sticking slightly to her skin as he tugged. At last, it came away with a wet rasp, and he shoved it away, not caring where it ended up in his desire to focus his attention on the heated body beneath him. He gazed down at her, her legs parted and pressed against the outsides of his hips, hair disheveled and underclothes stained with sweat.

"You're beautiful," he said because it was easier than saying what he really felt when he saw her like this, when she let him see her tired and unkempt and more than a little rattled. It was a distinct honor to be trusted this much by Natasha Romanov, and he liked to think that it meant she felt a whole lot more than just trust toward him.

He hunkered back down to his former position, rubbing his face against the crotch of her panties, abrading her sensitive inner thighs with his stubble while she moaned and bucked against him. He reached one hand up her body, slipping under the fabric of her tank top to cup her breast through her bra, grinning as she lifted her hips off the bed once more.

"Clint, please . . . !" she moaned, inarticulate and perfect, her fingers grasping the sheets, his arms, his hair, like she couldn't get purchase, couldn't find what she was looking for.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he murmured, then licked her through the thin fabric. Her clit was hard against his tongue, and he could taste her arousal, slightly salty with a trace of sweet, a flavor wholly her own.

"I . . ." she flailed, writhing in what only the unknowing would call agony.

"Tell me," he said, sliding his fingers around the waistband of her underwear. He pulled them down slowly, revealing her inch by inch, kissing her and breathing her in as he exposed her. She lifted her legs when he tugged, helped him remove the material, and he tossed it away to join her uniform on the floor.

"Tell me," he ordered again, breathing against her, his face so close to her pussy that he could feel her wetness, and he had to force himself to stay away, not to bury his face between her legs until she asked him to, until she begged, knowing the teasing would only serve to increase her arousal, make her wetter.

She palmed her breasts and thrust her hips at his face, silently beseeching with her body when she couldn't find the words, but he backed away, kept his face from her, needing her to use the words just as much as she needed him to ease the ache between her legs.

"I need to hear you say it, Nat," he whispered, peering up at her and meeting her half-hooded gaze. "Tell me what you want me to do."

She looked down at him and bit her lip, gathered herself, understanding that he wasn't asking her to submit, not really, he was asking to hear her voice, asking for direction. It wasn't about control, not this, but the very opposite, about letting go.

"I . . . want you to lick my pussy, Clint," she said, and he relented at last, giving into his craving and parting her labia with two fingers. He lathed his tongue along the length of her slit, grew harder at the unadulterated taste of her in his mouth. She quivered underneath him, shuddering and shaking as he paused and swirled the tip of his tongue around her engorged clitoris.

He pressed a kiss there, changing the pressure and she quaked again, a loud, "Yes!" bursting forth from her lips. Then a moment later, quieter, almost shy, she said, "Please suck me."

He circled her clit with his lips, just as desperate to please her as she was to feel him, and then because he could never resist when it came to touching her, he slid a finger into her, searching for the spongy spot within her that always made her lose control.

"More," she begged, and now her legs were up over his shoulders, her thighs were pressing into the sides of his face, thighs he's seen kill, and he had never felt more aroused or more vulnerable than when he was here, face between her legs and working her to orgasm. He slid another finger in, then another, stretching her, pressing against her g spot, waiting for the telltale pulse in her thighs before he started to pump, thrusting in and out of her. His hand, his chin, every bit of him that had touched her was covered in her wetness, her scent, and he lapped at her, increasing the speed of his fingers and sucking harder, stronger, pulling her clit into his mouth and gently scraping his teeth against her flesh, alternating that with a roll of his tongue.

Even as she started to shake, she began to shout, a moan that got out of control, so he pulled his hand away from her mound to press against her mouth, hoping she remembered how close they were to Coulson right now, how thin the walls in this place were.

"Oh, fuck, yes," she sobbed, and she bit his hand, hard, drawing blood as she came, her hips dancing against his face and her feet running up and down along his back, kicking uncontrollably to the beat of her orgasm. Idly, he heard the sheet tear in her grasp, but he was so fucking aroused from eating her out and feeling her pulse on his tongue that all he wanted to do was climb up and plunge inside of her wet heat.

He could do better than that though, wanted to do more than just pound himself to completion in a few thrusts, so he waited until she could breathe again before he let go and slid his fingers out of her, using the time to gather some of his self control. She had a loopy, relaxed grin on her face, one he hadn't seen in a while, and he didn't know if it was the tiredness or the sex or a combination of the two, but the expression suited her and his heart clenched a little at the sight. He grinned up at her dazed expression, pleased with his ability to put it there, and he wiped his face on her thigh and belly as he crawled up the bed.

"How'd that work out for you?" he asked cheekily, nuzzling her nose with his.

"You are such a jackass, Clint," she said, and he fucking loved it when she used his first name, loved the way she made it sound like an endearment and a curse at the same time. He could live to be a thousand and never get enough of the sound of his name on her lips.

He shifted to rest his weight on his right arm, then ran his hand along her sternum, coming to rest over her rapidly thumping heart.

"Seems like it worked out pretty well to me," he said, then leaned down to press a kiss to her collarbone. He didn't stop there, though, nudging the strap of her bra down and kissing the smooth flesh beneath, mindful of the fresh stitches on her shoulder.

Because he was always too fucking honest in bed, he said, "I was worried that this was going to be it today." He kept kissing her though, tried to keep his tone light hearted because even though they almost died (or maybe _because_ of it), he couldn't stand the existential angst that eking out such a narrow survival often brought.

"Can't be rid of me that easily," she whispered, then sighed as he pulled the cup of her bra down and licked a path to one peaked nipple. He sucked the puckered flesh into his mouth, rolled his tongue across her nipple, and when he drew away, he blew on the wet skin and watched her furrow her brow in pleasure.

"You like that?" he asked, watching the play of emotions on her face.

She nodded, then reached for him with both hands, pulled his face to hers for a sloppy kiss, knocking her teeth against his, but really, that was the least of his worries because she'd wrapped her legs around his hips without him noticing and why the fuck was he still wearing his pants again?

Natasha fumbled between them with the fastenings on his belt, cursing her frustration. He broke away from her mouth, leaned his forehead against hers and brushed her hands away to undo his pants. He sprung free at last, and she grabbed him, taking his cock in her hands and squeezing gently, purring underneath him and impatiently guiding him toward her center.

"Hold your horses, woman!" he laughed, still trying to get his pants off, realizing only now that he'd never managed to get his boots off.

"Don't need you naked," she said simply, licking her lips. "Just need you in me."

He couldn't think when she talked like that, couldn't hear himself over the rush of blood in his ears, but it all worked out because Natasha dragged him down on top of her and used her toes rather inventively to pull his pants down over his hips, and then he pushed up against her and slid inside.

"Fuck," he groaned, burying himself to the hilt in her slickness. She started moving her hips, using the grip of her legs to fuck him even though she was beneath him, and he couldn't help but meet her thrust for thrust.

She started to beg then, pleading and bargaining in a dozen languages, some of them unknown to him, but the message wholly understood. She was mindless and wanton, head thrown back and sobbing as he pounded into her, his balls slapping against her as they connected. Her moaning grew louder, unhinged, and he was forced to quiet her again, all too aware of SHIELD fraternization policies and Coulson's ability to have them pulling shit assignments for the next ten years.

"Quieter, Nat," he said against her throat, then shot his tongue out to lick at the sheen of sweat glistening there. An inarticulate grumble forced its way out of her mouth, but she quieted, whispering her pleasure to him.

"You feel so good," she said, then scraped her nails across his shoulders, and he knew he would have marks there later to remind him of this moment.

She kept trying to increase their pace, but he wouldn't let her, trying to draw out the process, wanting to feel this warm and alive and close for as long as possible before he had to return to reality. They deserved this.

"I . . .," he started, unsure how to say it. "I want this to last."

She moaned, an electrifying sound that had him rethinking his position on the pace. "I need you to fuck me already," she murmured demandingly, gasping for air.

"In good time," he said, still trying to endure the torment, but then she squeezed her inner walls around him and it felt like she was cutting off all the blood flow to his head.

"Come on!" she encouraged, wrapping her legs impossibly tighter, practically hanging off him. He knew he wouldn't last long like this, and despite the fatigue he felt pooling at the base of his skull, he still wanted to make this good for her, so he reached his hands behind him to force her to relax her grip, gently prying her legs from around him. God, her enthusiasm . . .

"I'm happy to do that, sweetheart, but if you want me to make it good for you, you've got to relax a little," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her and eliciting a pleased hum from her. She thrust her tongue against his, still trying to wrest more out of him, but he slowed himself deliberately.

"Just fuck me, Clint, please," she mumbled, the corners of her eyes scrunched up, deep lines of concentration appearing in her forehead as she begged him for more. She pressed kisses against the corner of his mouth, his cheek, the edge of his ear, and he couldn't resist her any longer because her legs were back up again, finding his waist and unable to keep away, and his dick felt like steel as he took a long, firm thrust.

He felt her shudder underneath him as he increased his pace, and her pleas were reduced to affirmations and unthinking cries to deities. He could feel her muscles start to clench inside and out, heard the hitch in her breath and saw the blush deepen on her face and chest as she neared her release.

"Harder, please!" she said, her voice raising on the second word, and there really was no way that Coulson missed that, but he'd worry about that later because she was close, dangerously close and even though he was ostensibly in control, she held all the power here, she regulated his every action.

His testicles tightened up as he pounded into her, and the gentle thrum of arousal settled somewhere low in his belly as his own orgasm approached. He hoped he could time this right because there was no better thing in the world than coming inside of her while she contracted around him, nothing was better than feeling the tight clamp of her muscles as an orgasm ripped through her body and she squeezed his cock as he erupted.

He could feel himself crest the ridge even as she did the same, and he dropped his full weight on her, desperate to get closer, to press himself against her body. He turned his face into her neck, felt her do the same, and then they were there, plummeting over the edge together, intensifying each other's spasms with lazy, drawn out thrusts.

She clutched at him as her tremors subsided, the clasp of her inner walls still milking the last bits of come out of him, and she kissed his shoulder as her breath returned to normal.

"You smell like sweat and explosives," she said without preamble, her mind clearly addled to the point that she lost what little brain-mouth filter she attempted to maintain, and Clint laughed, his chuckle echoing in the room. She squirmed as he shook, and he could tell that she was sensitive from the friction.

He murmured a half-hearted apology as he rolled off her with a wince, his penis just this side of sore. It was amusing (but gratifying, he could admit to himself) when he heard Natasha do the same as he pulled out.

"You really know how to sweet talk a guy," he said, but he was amused, grateful that she just said the first thing that came to her mind without a hint of embarrassment, because really, that _was_ her version of sweet talk, and her being so open with him touched him deep inside. He would rather a thousand words of her honesty than a single word of what she fed to the world at large.

She opened one eye to look at him. "Didn't say I minded your smell," she pointed out, looking so beautiful that he pulled her into his side. She nestled against him, pillowing her head on his chest and resting one palm on his stomach, and she breathed in deeply, pressing her nose against him. "Kind of like it."

He chuckled again, in surprisingly good spirits after the couple of days they'd had.

"So, you think Coulson heard anything?" he asked, not particularly worried. The guy was probably psychic, and Clint was sure that there was no way he didn't know how they spent the excess adrenaline after a mission. It was too late to worry about it at this point anyway.

Natasha shrugged. "Maybe," she said, and she bumped her legs against his, hitting the bunched up fabric of his pants with her shin. "So maybe you want to get out of those before he breaks down the door to quote procedure at us."

He stifled a yawn. "Are you actually telling me that I should get more naked because the boss man could burst in at any time?"

She burrowed closer. "You have a very distracting body."

He rubbed his hand over her hair, dropped a kiss to the top of her head. "Thanks, baby."

She poked him once in the side, hard. "Wasn't a compliment. I'm plotting my escape."

"Without me? You're mean."

"You know you like it."

She wasn't wrong.

* * *

He woke up earlier than he thought he would, the sounds of the city filtering into the room alongside the sun, and he figured he'd put some of that French he knew to good use and grab himself and Natasha coffee before she peeled her eyes open. An uncaffeinated Natasha was never a pleasant sight to behold, even one as sated and rested as she would likely be this morning. He smiled as he dressed, remembering how they'd awakened in the middle of the night for a second round.

He was pleasantly sore and lost in his thoughts when he ran into Coulson in the hallway. Because clearly that was the kind of week he was having.

"Good morning, sir," he said, looking the senior agent in the eye and pretending like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Coulson had on the look, the special one that he must have perfected in utero, the one that said, "You're such an idiot, Barton, but you're good at what you do and I like you, so I'm going to pretend that I didn't listen to you banging your partner all night."

Clint wisely made no further comment as he headed outside to find breakfast.

He made it down to a little corner cafe and back with time to spare, and it was the wafting aroma of the (damn good) coffee that woke her instead of the still half-expected rendition of the riot act by one Agent Phil Coulson.

"Is that caffeine for me?" she asked, not bothering to disguise the hopeful tone in her voice.

Clint nodded even though she wasn't looking at him. "Yep." Her hand darted out from under the coverlet, open palmed and flapping.

"Gimme," she said, and she hadn't always been this informal (and never around anyone else), but he liked to think that she was just herself around him rather than the masked shadow of she showed to the rest of the world.

He placed the cup into her hand, even as she rolled over to take a sip, and the groan she let out had him stirring in places that he thought she'd screwed out him last night. She still hadn't opened her eyes, and he was glad he had other intentions right now, because really, those sorts of things went better with both parties fully awake.

He slipped the wrapped item out of his pocket, hoping that it hadn't melted yet. Her eyes flashed open at the first crackle of paper.

"Did you bring me chocolate, too?" she asked.

He grinned at her, holding the bar up. "Yup," he said because he knew how much she loved the stuff (to say nothing of how much he did), and if you couldn't eat chocolate for breakfast in one of the cocoa capitals of the world then where the fuck could you?

"Jesus Christ, Barton, I think I'm going to swoon," she said and grabbed the bar. Taking a bite and chasing it with her coffee, she sighed.

"Good?" he asked, leaning in to sample it for himself.

She put her coffee on the floor, then gently took his cup from him, too, and she pulled him down to the bed. She nudged him until his back was pressed against the headboard, and then he found himself confronted with a lap full of very warm, very naked Natasha. She leaned in to kiss him firmly, tasting like chocolate and coffee and sex, and he thought he'd just discovered his new favorite thing.

"What was that for?" he asked as she drew back.

She smiled her best Mona Lisa smile, something a bit more serious than lust and gratitude in her gaze. "You," she said. "Just for you."

She kissed him again, and then opened the clasp on his pants, more easily now that she wasn't tired or drunk and had the light to see. She sunk down easily onto him, pressing him backward gently, and this time there was no frenzied movements or embarrassing pleas, there was just smooth heat as she rode him. They shared their breath as they moved, unwilling to break the sweet spell that rose so suddenly between them, and when they came, it was with a whispered gasp instead of a shout.

Eventually, they meandered over to the window, letting the sun drift higher in the sky, sipping coffee and sharing pieces of chocolate and maybe at some point she was going to put on pants and they would walk next door to see Coulson, but right now they were both alive and from the way she was leaning into his side and resting her hand on his ass, he was pretty sure he was going to get lucky again as soon as the coffee was done, so screw it.

It was a beautiful fucking day, he had his woman (though he wouldn't call her that to her face) by his side, and for some unexplainable reason she would rather screw him into the mattress than eat or sleep, and shit, today was a good damn day to be alive.


End file.
